


Overdose

by Patatarte



Series: The Cow Crew [20]
Category: cowchop, fakechop - Fandom
Genre: Drugs, Gen, addiction problem, not fun use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 19:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12115635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patatarte/pseuds/Patatarte
Summary: He almost takes one of too many, screams without a noise





	Overdose

He keeps telling himself not to, but he comes back to it every so often. Syringes are now tied to fear and comfort, the slight bite of pain is so soon replaced by bliss.

He exhales and can feels time slow down around him.

The bass is loud and it shakes the furnitures, the floor, his soul. It never felt better than at this exact moment. His pupils are dilated and the dark room barely lighted by blue and red just add to the mood.

His body slips slowly on the soft carpet without even realizing it. A smile is plastered on his face, a tired mask mixed with chemical pleasure. The music goes away, behind a wall of cotton.

He blinks so slowly now, not feeling the tears falling down as a relief or a call for help. His heartbeat is all he can hear, irregular, intense. It makes so much noise that it ends feeling like pure silence.

The nothingness devores him.

But it’s over as quickly at it came, sickness takes over, shakes his body to the core. His muscles once limp are tense. He wants to puke and screams as tears keep going.

What was he thinking.

The syringe is still in his arm and he’d give everything to keep it full, he’d replace his blood for another second of paradise.

Screams are muffled, mutted.

The windows of his mind explode and glass flies around him like glitter, cutting his soul. The floor starts bubbling, burning, opening like the gate of hell that’s waiting for him.

He can’t move, trapped by his own poison. Sweat covers him like a blanket made of needles, he wants it to stop, he wants to die.

Screaming is all he can do but no sound goes past his throat, he’s alone and cursed to the bones. All he can do is watch as the room spins and crushes him slowly.

Emptiness full of horror and consciousness.

It’s a spiral that never ends, and he can’t tell if he fell asleep or if his brain just decided to shut down.

In the morning, the room is silent, warm, sunlight piercing though the curtains as muffled sounds from the city indicate that the world is still there.

He’s on the floor, feeling disgusting and sick. Everything is painful, so he decides not to move for the longest time, waiting for the pain to go.

He waited, and when he was done waiting, he waited even more.

Until his phone vibrated, giving him a small amount of strengh. They worry about him, ask why he’s not arrived yet.

He lies, says that he went to the best party ever and feels a bit tired now. He’ll come later.

The syringe is on the carpet, shiny, empty. He wants to throw it against the wall but knows he will not do it. It needs to stop before he goes too far.

After a long time, he stands. Shaking and sweating cold, wanting to take a shower but not feeling good enough to do it.

His hands fumble in a drawer, searching frantically until everything fall. He’s suddenly on the floor, taking pills, his back against the cold fridge, crying.

Time passes again, way too fast.

He’s standing again, eyes a bit puffy but he’ll wear sunglasses. A quick shower, fresh clothes, a soda and he’s outside then in his car.

He checks his smile, the best mask of the day, and drives away.


End file.
